Page 5 of Fire

She arches a brow and I flare my hands.

“Fine. He’s…well…see for yourself.” I unlock my phone and pull up the pics I found of him at the firehouse. Doing a photoshoot for a calendar. For charity. Without his shirt. While streaked with sweat and soot and wielding heavy tools.

Butterflies take flight in my stomach before I mentally tamp them down. We hate him and all his broken promises. He doesn’t deserve butterflies.

“Sweet Jesus, Ive! Is he a looker or what?” Grandma blows a long whistle before zooming in. “That has to be Photoshopped.”

“I don’t think it is. I mean, they probably used tricks with the lighting to make his abs look so…you know…”

“Ripped?” She shakes her head as if to clear her mind, then zooms in even closer.

“Right. Ripped.”

“And his chest, too.” Grandma scrunches her nose, and I can’t tell if she’s messing with me or not. “That’s probably lighting as well.”

“It has to be.” Though my statement sounds more like a question.

“And that face. No one’s that handsome in real life.”

Do I have sucky news for her, or what? Micah Hutton is every bit that handsome in real life, which makes him all the more disappointing. If he’s going to look that delectable, the least he could do is…I don’t know, care he has a daughter.

“Oh my God. Ivy Cole! He is that handsome in real life. I can see it all over your face.”

“He is. But that only makes me hate him more. Bad people shouldn’t look like angels.”

“Honey. I don’t know what shows you’ve been watching, but the angels aren’t the ones who look like sin.” Grandma cackles and swipes through the photos, stopping to ogle one of him solo, bare chested, sweaty, soot streaked, with an axe flung over his shoulder. I’d stared at that one a long time myself.

“Between your genes and his, we’re gonna be chasing the boys away with a firehose when Nell gets older. I wonder if he’d let us use his. Though I guess you kind of already did…”

She grins in that crooked way of hers I’ve come to love so much. Grandpa used to tell her she looked “touched” when she smiled that way, so she did everything she could to change it until she finally stopped smiling altogether. To me, that crooked grin is charming and full of character, and I love it all the more because it’s hers.

It gives me hope.

“Enough!” I shove her shoulder and laugh. “I can get used to lots of things, but dirty jokes from my grandma might be pushing the line a little hard.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” She hands my phone back. “What else did you learn while you cyberstalked your high school sweetheart?”

“His aunt runs a charity for underprivileged kids. The Reversal of Fortune Foundation.”

“Now that sounds like something a Hutton would do. To this day, I find it hard to believe Micah disappeared on you when you needed him most. That boy is so lucky your grandpa was still alive when we found out you were pregnant. I wanted to march over to his house, drag him out by the collar, and tell him a thing or two about how to take care of people who matter. But your father had decided it best for everyone that we go no contact, so that’s what I did. Even though it killed me.”

Seventeen-year-old Ivy couldn’t believe Micah disappeared either. Seventeen-year-old fought like hell to text him every chance she could when she found out she was pregnant shortly after moving to Seattle, shocked to her core when he never responded. Twenty-four-year-old Ivy had some time to get used to the idea.

But I’m tired of talking about Micah. He’s used up all the airtime I’m willing to give him, so I shift to an even more uncomfortable topic.

“I was thinking of applying for housing assistance through his aunt’s foundation.”

Grandma blinks. Cocks her head. Sighs as she sizes me up. “You know you’re welcome here as long as you need.”

“I do. But we’re crashing in an insomniac’s living room who would probably love to stop tiptoeing around the house when she can’t sleep.” And I need to learn to support myself, no matter how hard it gets.

“It’s the men I really miss,” Grandma says with a wistful sigh. “Can’t have them knocking on the door with you two in the living room.”

My jaw drops.

“Joking. Joking.” Her eyes twinkle. “I sneak ‘em through the back when you’re asleep.”

The transformation in her is inspiring. When I was younger, she was meek, quiet, always looking to Grandpa before speaking. I thought she was shy, but this version of her, the real, unadulterated, unfiltered version? She’s big and bold and not afraid to make a stupid joke. She just lives her life the way she wants to and—

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